“From a management point of view, I see the issue,” said Nick. “If we’re up there, we’re another layer that has to be briefed, kept in the loop—and, worst of all, listened to. We just get in the way of the Incident Command staff and turn it all murky. We think it’s our turf, and we’re hardwired to protect turf. Maybe we make different calls than they do, maybe we know too much, which can be as destructive as knowing too little. Maybe—and they’re right on this—Nick Memphis doesn’t have the experience to run something this big and complicated, and maybe the loyalty his people feel toward him clouds their judgment. Not saying it’s so, just saying that’s how it could be seen. And, once seen, it has to be avoided.”

“And maybe some Bigfoot wants the credit,” said Bob. “And maybe someone has a debt to be paid or wants to advance a protégé up the ladder. Or maybe someone thinks Nick’s shoes ain’t shiny enough or he should have worn cotton socks instead of wool ones, which he would have learned if he’d gone to a university that didn’t have ‘State’ in its name.”

“These are silk,” said Nick. “My only pair. So it’s not that.”

“So what happens to us?” asked Chandler.

“We stay here. We are copied on everything but asked to comment on nothing. If questioned, we answer to the best of our knowledge. On operation day, we will set up in the Command Center and will be able to follow the action by uplink to the New York Field Office in real time. We get a front-row seat, watching it all go down. That’s what everybody wants—and I do mean everybody.”

Again silence, as each tried to work his or her way around what was deemed necessary by upper management.

“I smell the White House,” said Neill. “I smell Mogul.”